


Impossible Things

by out_there



Series: Similar Creatures & Impossible Things [2]
Category: Prison Break
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-06
Updated: 2009-08-06
Packaged: 2017-10-09 16:25:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/89389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex tries to be a little more honest with himself.  Tries to remember that just because the money's out of sight -- left on the kitchen counter for Michael, something so crass about actually handing it to him every time -- doesn't mean this is more than a job for Michael.  Doesn't mean Alex should expect it to be more.<br/>(Sequel to <em>Similiar Creatures</em>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impossible Things

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [Similar Creatures](http://out-there.livejournal.com/1017275.html) (in other words, more teen hooker fic). I have to say a huge thank you to the wonderful girls who read snippets as I read and showed such enthusiasm that I had to get this finished (in alphabetical order, that's [](http://aurora-84.livejournal.com/profile)[**aurora_84**](http://aurora-84.livejournal.com/), [](http://damaduende.livejournal.com/profile)[**damaduende**](http://damaduende.livejournal.com/), [](http://dodificus.livejournal.com/profile)[**dodificus**](http://dodificus.livejournal.com/), [](http://isagel.livejournal.com/profile)[**isagel**](http://isagel.livejournal.com/) and [](http://sdwolfpup.livejournal.com/profile)[**sdwolfpup**](http://sdwolfpup.livejournal.com/), who saw me through the last six months of getting this out on paper). Thanks to [](http://oxoniensis.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://oxoniensis.livejournal.com/)**oxoniensis** for an awesome beta job. Title originally inspired by a "Pretty Woman" line: _"Impossible Relationships. My special gift is impossible relationships."_ (but "Impossible Things" works better).

There's a line in Pretty Woman -- one of those films Alex watched because Pam wanted to, and for no other reason -- about impossible relationships. It sticks with him, even when he's back in Colorado.

Things like that stick in his memory, like the way Pam used her left hand to push hair off her forehead, like the way Michael had shrugged the last night Alex was in Chicago and passed him a slip of paper, saying, "If you call me before nine, I'll probably be there. If you're ever back in town."

It's impossible. Ridiculous. Absolutely and utterly foolish. But when the promotion in Chicago is advertised, Alex applies.

He tells himself it's because he needs some space from Pam. Because she's talked about divorce, and while he hasn't agreed he really can't argue it either. Because space would be good for both of them, and a promotion would be good for his career. But he can't shake the image of Michael wearing nothing but jeans, and standing in the open doorway, one arm stretched high against the frame.

It's how he imagines Michael: that one perfect moment of anticipation. He remembers what happened next -- Michael's long fingers confidently undoing his belt, popping open the first few buttons to show smooth skin and the hint of dark hair disappearing beneath the denim, the way Michael stalked to the foot of the bed, crawled his way up -- but he's smart enough to recognize that part as a performance. But that moment of Michael standing there, barefoot and revealing so little, despite all that skin on display, that's how Alex remembers Michael.

The clearest thing about that memory isn't the strong line of Michael's shoulders, the sliding curve of hip bone or the teasing glitter of Michael's eyes. The sharpest part is how badly Alex wanted him. It was a basic, animal desire deep in his bones, tight in his chest. Alex remembers his breath catching, the heat in his gut, the certainty thrumming under his skin that everything on offer was his to enjoy.

He can't think of Michael without remembering that feeling.

So Alex knows the real reason for applying. Knows why he keeps Michael's number tucked safely inside his wallet. Knows why he doesn't call when he gets the interview. Or while he's in the hotel for those few days, meeting superiors and looking around the office that he knows will be his.

He waits until they offer him the job, until he has the agreement in writing, and then he calls.

Michael answers on the third ring. Says, "God, Linc, seriously. I'm trying to study."

Alex clears his throat. It's not the first time he's wondered about the sanity of this decision. "It's Alex," he says, and then can't remember if he ever told Michael his name. "From--"

"I remember," Michael cuts in. There's a pause. "Are you back in Chicago?"

"Yeah," Alex says. He should say more, explain, but he feels edgy and nervous, too aware of his heart pounding behind his ribs.

"Same hotel?"

"Actually, yes." Because he hasn't got a place yet. Because the agency is paying for his relocation costs, and staying in a hotel for a week is an acceptable luxury. "Different room. 403."

"Same arrangement as last time?"

Alex doesn't know if Michael means the rates or the hours, but he tells himself it doesn't matter. He can discuss it when Michael gets there. "Tonight okay?"

"I'll see you later," Michael says and he doesn't say goodbye. He just hangs up the phone, and the dead signal drones in Alex's ear.

***

Michael shows up at exactly nine o'clock. Wearing dark denim jeans tight across the thighs and another old t-shirt that looks too tight. Alex licks his lips, and doesn't think about the gesture until after it's done, until one corner of Michael's mouth lifts in a smirk.

"Good to see you," Alex manages and Michael nods, closing the door behind him.

He doesn't say anything, not Alex's name, not amounts of money, just leans back against the door and raises one foot against it. His bent knee points to the side, his thighs parted in just enough of an invitation that Alex steps forward. Slides his hands around Michael's arms, fingers around his biceps and buries his mouth in the curve of Michael's neck.

He bites, and Michael gasps: a small, tiny sound close to Alex's ear. Alex can feel the muscles beneath his hands tense, so he lets go, presses his palms flat against the door instead.

Michael slides down with his back against the door, settles on his knees and Alex has to brace a hand around the doorframe. There's a strange power in simply standing there, watching Michael's fingers undo his belt and carefully tug his fly open.

And this is one of those things Alex couldn't forget: the stretch of Michael's lips, the bold way Michael stares up as if he can see right though Alex.

***

Of course, it's an illusion that Michael can see through Alex. If he could see, if he could recognize this strange -- Alex doesn't want to call it an obsession, but the term does fit -- attraction, he might have expected the offer.

From the way Michael watches and draws his hands into his lap like he wants to pull away from his surroundings, the idea comes as a surprise. "Are you sure?"

"Are you available?" Alex counters. Because he is sure; he's terrifyingly sure that this is what he wants.

"Not on Tuesdays. And not on Thursdays. Not at all," Michael says. He watches Alex closely, eyes dipping to Alex's hands clasped tightly around the glass of coke. Then he adds, "And I'd prefer to have the weekends to study."

Alex grins, suddenly sure that this might be impossible but it also might work. "So Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Same rates."

"Every week," Michael agrees slowly. He seems wary but not unwilling. More like he's waiting for the catch, like he's willing to risk paying some unstated obligation for the sake of regular income. "And you're sure you can afford this? Don't think you'll be bored by the third week?"

"I don't think I will," Alex says but he can't quite manage to stop grinning.

***

Alex remembers being married. Remembers living with someone who knew him, someone who loved him, someone who complained about his flaws but stayed (as long as she could). This isn't the same.

Michael doesn't know him. Michael doesn't know his family background, know his favorite teams, his most hated sports, the trashy action books he indulgently reads and the cases that get under his skin. But Michael watches -- serious eyes always watching, always staring back at Alex when he looks -- and he picks things up faster than most.

When Alex tells him the address of his new place, the corner of Michael's mouth hitches up and he says, "A few more stops and you'd have been in a good neighborhood." That's all Michael says. He doesn't outright accuse Alex of choosing a place based on the address he saw on Michael's license, working out from the train lines and getting somewhere close to public transport; but there's something in that smirk that suggests he knows.

When Alex changes his routine a little, cooks later than normal and far more than one person could eat, Michael shrugs and says, "Planning to eat all that yourself?" He makes it easy for Alex to offer.

It's almost embarrassing that it takes Alex so long to notice. Alex is a smart guy and he's good at spotting things, at reading people, but for the first week or two, he thinks it's just Michael. He thinks this is who Michael is; that being with Michael is just easy, uncomplicated.

He can't say what it is that tips him off. It could be Michael's tanned fingers discreetly tugging the too-tight jeans up. It could be the moment Michael stares at the kitchen counter, skimming the opened letters Alex left there. But really, Alex thinks it was when Michael fell asleep, sitting beside him on the couch.

It wasn't the act of sleeping. It was when he woke up, when Alex nudged him and said, "How about bed?" and Michael flinched. Blinked himself awake. Stood up sluggishly and followed Alex to the bedroom, peeling off layers with each step towards the bed.

Alex had been a little distracted watching the lines of Michael's body, the curves of ribcage and torso, hipbone and thigh. Stretch of skin and muscle, carefully contained movements that seemed graceful to Alex, shifting so smoothly they appeared natural and artless.

He'd pulled the covers back and Michael had got into bed, but instead of stretching out or curling up on his side, instead of falling back asleep, Michael had yawned. Shook his head once. Then rolled up against Alex, started kissing his way down Alex's chest.

With two hands on Michael's biceps, Alex hauled him up. "Not what I meant when I said bed," he said, noticing the way that Michael watched, didn't look away.

Didn't grin or smirk, or show anything, as he said, "Yeah, 'cause you're paying me to nap."

Alex swallowed. For a moment, he found himself trapped: caught between a flush of guilt (because it was true) and a stab of anger (because Michael had made him acknowledge it). He watched as Michael shrugged out of his grip and went back to mouthing down his skin.

For a moment, he was going to let it happen. Going to pretend Michael hadn't said that and lie back and enjoy it. But he couldn't ignore the way Michael watched, the way Michael stared up at him like he always did -- so bold, so challenging -- and then Alex realized it wasn't a challenge. It wasn't confidence or anything like that; it was Michael watching for reactions. It was Michael... selling him a service, selling him a pretence.

"Tonight I am," Alex said, and Michael paused, pulled back with a frown. "Tonight I'm paying you to nap."

***

After that, Alex tries to be a little more honest with himself. Tries to remember that just because the money's out of sight -- left on the kitchen counter for Michael, something so crass about actually handing it to him every time -- doesn't mean this is more than a job for Michael. Doesn't mean Alex should expect it to be more.

"So what are the restrictions?" he asks Michael the next time he sees him. "What are the limits here?"

Michael doesn't pretend to misunderstand the topic. "There aren't any limits I could enforce."

"An assault charge is enforceable," Alex replies, pushing the stir-fry around the pan. He could look over his shoulder, see Michael watching him, but he doesn't want to.

Michael chuffs out a laugh. "Yeah, I go to the cops. I get arrested for solicitation and you get, what, sympathy? The strong belief that some lying kid is trying to ruin the reputation of a good man?"

"That's not how it works." Alex looks over his shoulder in time to see Michael shrug. He wonders if he could actually convince Michael. He has a sneaking suspicion that even if Michael said he agreed, he'd never really believe Alex. "Besides, I asked for limits, not laws. For what you don't want."

It's rare for Michael to be the one to break eye-contact, but he looks away. Alex turns back to the cooking and starts dishing it up. He empties the pan, starts to wash it, and then Michael says, "Nothing that leaves permanent damage."

"Want to define that a little more?"

"Safe sex. Nothing that leaves me with an embarrassing trip to the doctors. Nothing that scars. Nothing that breaks skin."

"You know," Alex says, scrubbing at the pan more forcefully than he needs to, "there's a lot of damage I could do without breaking skin. Painful bruises, that type of thing."

"Nothing above my collar, then. Nothing below my wrists. Nothing I can't hide."

Alex finishes with the pan. Picks up the plates, puts them out. Almost wishes he hadn't asked, because Michael doesn't seem angry about it or upset. Doesn't seem to think there's anything wrong with the idea of sleeping with someone and giving them permission to hurt him.

The food is sticky and cloying in his mouth, but Alex chews and swallows. Does it again and again. Then he has to ask. "Do you think I'd do that?"

Michael freezes with his fork in the air, carrot and broccoli and noodles threatening to slip down. "No," he says, and goes on eating.

***

That night, curled up in bed, Michael's back against his chest, and his thighs against Alex's, Alex presses a kiss to Michael's shoulder. Bites lightly against the joint and feels the hitch in Michael's breathing. Alex likes... this. These moments of quiet after sex, bare skin against his, another warm body in the bed, relaxed and soft under his fingers.

It gives him an urge to explore, to kiss Michael from bony shoulders to pointed ankles, from the tender curve of instep to those ridiculously full lips. He never does. Partly because these moments always come after sex, when he's tired and moving seems like too much effort; partly because he's never kissed Michael on the mouth. From what he's heard, it's not something you can pay for.

Except... "Those limits don't say anything about kissing."

"No," Michael says, voice low and rumbling against Alex's skin. "They don't."

"According to those limits, I could kiss you."

"Yeah," Michael says, turning his head enough to look over his shoulder, "you could."

Shifting, Alex props himself up on one elbow, leans over Michael. He slides a hand up Michael's neck, traces the edge of jaw, the smooth cheek above it. Then he smiles, and Michael looks away, ducks his chin in, swallows.

But he doesn't pull away as Alex slowly leans closer. Doesn't tense up when Alex stops, stays right there. Michael's tongue swipes his lower lip nervously and that's when Alex kisses him. Catches soft, wet lips with his.

He could push for more. Could lick inside and spend at least an hour mapping Michael's mouth, but there's a shock of cool air against his lips when Michael gasps, and Alex... doesn't want this. Doesn't want to push because he knows Michael won't stop him. He wants to tease and taunt until Michael's the one taking.

So he keeps the kisses shallow. Slow and light, dragging his mouth across Michael's until Michael's eyes are closed. Until Michael's hands are tight on his shoulders and his gasps are getting audible. Until Michael pushes Alex back and rolls on top, licks and sucks at Alex's mouth until he opens it.

That's when it gets good. Michael's tongue sliding against his, and Michael's hands in his hair, tugging Alex to where he wants him, and Michael rocking against Alex's thigh. It's shameless -- seventeen year old libido, Alex remembers -- and dirty in the best of ways. Just enough to make Alex growl and get hold of Michael's hips to urge him on.

In Alex's opinion, it's over too fast. It's barely minutes between Michael kissing him and Michael grunting, burying his head against Alex's throat, his hips losing their rhythm. Then Michael's hands are clawing into his arms and there's the wet of Michael's come stuck to their skin.

Michael grumbles something, something Alex doesn't catch at all, and makes a floppy, uncoordinated attempt at moving off him. Alex ignores it and tightens his arms around Michael.

He wakes up with Michael gone (expected) and a hickey on his neck (kind of surprising... and a little embarrassing at almost thirty). He keeps catching himself adjusting his collar, pressing the back of his fingers against the bruise.

***

Kissing Michael is something of a guilty pleasure. In the middle of typing an arrest report, Alex will find his mind slipping from precise sentences and accurate descriptions to the bow of Michael's upper lip, the warmth of Michael's caught breath, the press of Michael's body against his. It's become a personal challenge to kiss Michael and see how fast he can get Michael's eyes to drift shut, how much soft teasing it takes to make Michael grab at him and demand more.

That's how Alex finds himself distracted as he reads over a witness statement; he's thinking of Michael and Michael's mouth, remembering hands in his hair as he pushed Michael up against the kitchen counter. He sharply recalls the kitchen floor hard under his knees, the half-swallowed noises Michael made, the white stretch of Michael's knuckles gripping the edges of the laminate. It's nearly impossible to focus on work after that.

***

"We should go out," Alex says.

Well, he mumbles the words against Michael's neck. He has his hands in the back pockets of Michael's jeans and Michael has one hand pressed flat against the curve of Alex's shoulder. The other is curled around Alex's neck, fingernails raking lightly against his scalp.

Michael makes a noise -- something between "What?" and "Huh?" -- so Alex lifts his head and says, "We should go out. You know, to eat."

"Now?" Michael's lips are dark and shiny. Alex thinks about kissing them, and then his stomach rumbles.

"I'm hungry. And there's nothing in the kitchen."

Michael leans back against the wall, effectively trapping Alex's hands behind him. Not that Alex is complaining about it. "I'm willing to add a third rule," he says slowly, "banning sex in public."

Alex kisses his jaw, the edge of his mouth, and says, "Duly noted." Then he tugs his hands free and shepherds Michael out the door.

There's an Indian place a few blocks away and the night is warm enough to walk. It's half past nine on a Wednesday and the streets are loosely crowded, but Michael stays close, matching Alex stride for stride. His thumbs are hooked into his pockets, shoulders hunched -- like a kid who suddenly grew tall and doesn't know what to do with it -- and he doesn't touch Alex, but there are only inches between them.

Michael doesn't talk and Alex contents himself with stealing sideways glances, watching Michael's body language and thinking about how he'd interpret it if he didn't know Michael. He'd assume the closed-in shoulders showed a lack of self-esteem, a desire to be overlooked and ignored; he'd note the way Michael stares around him, watching buildings and passing cars, looking at the faces of people walking past, and assume he was nervous and uncomfortable, not used to being in this neighborhood. But the more he gets to know Michael, the more he ignores the assumed behavior patterns that have served him so well in the agency and carefully observes, the more Alex suspects that Michael's appearance is very deceptive.

Michael watches; he's wary. But he isn't uncertain.

Michael doesn't draw attention to himself but he doesn't have any trouble dealing with people or forming his own opinion.

Michael isn't touching him but when he looks over and catches Alex watching him, he gives a smug, close-mouthed smile in reply. "You wanted to watch me in public?"

"I wanted to eat." Alex ducks his head closer and lowers his voice. "Once I got you naked, there's no way I'd have left the apartment for food."

Michael accepts that. Or at least he doesn't challenge Alex over it.

The next time he catches Alex watching him, he smiles with teeth.

At the restaurant, Michael orders the butter chicken without hesitation. It's strange because Alex hadn't picked him as the type to be so comfortable in restaurants. From the way he dresses, the worn, tight clothing, and from Michael's choice of part-time job, Alex wouldn't have assumed his family had much money. Certainly wouldn't assume they'd be the type to eat out often. He's too curious not to ask. "Eat out much?"

"Not these days," Michael says.

Alex finishes ordering and waits until the waiter walks away. "But you used to?"

"When I was a kid." Michael falls silent. He's playing with the linen napkin between his fingers, folding it into white triangle peaks, twisting it until Alex recognizes it as a crane. "My mom used to do the books for a few restaurants. They'd give her free meals so we'd eat take-out more often than not."

Alex nods. It agrees with what he's seen of Michael in a kitchen. If Alex cooks, Michael's willing to help, always watching, carefully mimicking Alex's gestures. Michael hasn't said anything and Alex hasn't asked, but he gets the impression Michael's learning; he's using Alex to teach himself.

"What does she do now?" Alex asks to keep the conversation going. "Your mom?" he adds, when Michael's eyes narrow.

"No."

"No?"

"You don't get to ask that." Michael looks at the tawny-orange wall beside them, flattening the bird in his hands back into a square of plain fabric. Then Alex realizes he's looking at the mirror, using the reflection to watch the room. "I'm not going to answer that."

"Why not?"

Michael keeps observing the room, keeps not looking at Alex. Alex takes the opportunity to stare at him blatantly. To watch the tightness around the corner of his lips, the soft shadow beneath his jaw, the way his eyebrows draw together as he thinks. "You just don't get to ask it, Alex."

Alex respects rules. He couldn't work for the government if he didn't. "It's off-limits," he finishes for Michael, "your family, your home. Your life now?"

"There have to be boundaries." It almost sounds like an apology.

"So what can I ask about?" Alex smiles, tries to lighten the tone of the conversation. "What are acceptable topics?"

"TV, music, favorite novel." Shrugging, Michael smoothes the napkin over his lap and Alex wonders who taught him to do that. He knows enough not to ask, though. "Opinions on current events."

"What about school?"

That makes Michael smile and meet Alex's gaze. "If you really want to be bored."

"I really do," Alex says. He doesn't say that he finds Michael fascinating, that he couldn't imagine Michael being boring if he tried.

They discuss movies and music until Michael asks, "Favorite building?" and Alex swallows before he replies.

"That I've lived in?"

"No, favorite building. That you've seen, that you've read about. That you've admired. It's not a weird question," he adds when Alex pulls a face.

"Unless you're an architect, why in the world would you have a favorite building?" Alex glances up and catches the tail-end of a muddled expression on Michael's face. It's a combination of confusion, with a touch of embarrassment and amusement. Alex realizes that he possibly shouldn't have said that. "You have a favorite building, don't you?"

"The Fields Marshall Building," Michael says. "It's practical but it was ambitious. Used to be the largest store in the world. It's elegant, built on classic lines, not just design trends of the time."

"Do you want to be an architect?" It might be one of those questions Alex isn't allowed to ask but he asks anyway.

Michael gives a quick shake of his head. "Not an architect. An engineer. Structural, probably, or maybe civil."

"Design buildings or design cities," Alex muses out loud, and gets a fast smile in return. "I've known a few engineers. They were good guys."

"What type of engineer?"

"Combat."

Michael shovels in a forkful of rice and nods at Alex to continue.

"Think of them as the opposite of structural engineers. A structural engineer will tell you the best way to keep something standing, a combat engineer will tell you how long you've got before it falls around your ears. But if you're trying to pull someone out of a collapsed building, they're your guys."

Michael looks interested but he doesn't ask about the engineering. "You were in the army?"

"Two terms."

"Seems like it would've suited you." Alex raises an eyebrow, doesn't know how to take that until Michael adds, "Would have made sense to make a career of it. Or is this a 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell' thing?"

Alex almost laughs. "It's a 'met a pretty girl, got married, didn't want to spend months away from her' thing." He has a sudden flash of meeting Pam -- dark hair flowing loose down her back, deep ruby lipstick; short, practical nails and ridiculously high heels -- stopping her on a street in Denver to ask for directions and blurting out an invitation to dinner because she had the sweetest laugh he'd ever heard. He remembers holding his breath, trying to hide his sweaty palms as she hummed and hawed, and eventually agreed on the proviso that her sister could come too.

But while he's sitting across from Michael, the last thing Alex wants to think about is his first date with Pam.

***

That night he asks, "So what are your other favorite buildings?"

"Huh?" Michael blinks his eyes open. Against the white of Alex's pillowcase, his skin looks flushed and the hand curled around Alex's bicep tightens for a moment as he focuses. "Favorite buildings?"

"For you to have a favorite building, I'm assuming you must have considered a few. Noticed some others," Alex says, shifting his weight to one arm so he can slide his other hand across the arch of Michael's hip. "Tell me about them."

"Why?"

Alex catches Michael's earlobe between his teeth, applies just enough pressure to make Michael gasp. "Because I want to hear you talk while I jerk you off," Alex says and Michael's breath catches again.

For a heartbeat, Alex thinks he's pushed too far. Then Michael says, "The Empire State Building's an obvious choice, but for good reason…"

***

On good days, when Alex is feeling reasonable -- when he remembers falling head over heels for Pam, remembers the first time he kissed her, remembers the way she'd laughed and agreed to marry him -- he doesn't blame her for the split. He knows that there are things in life that happen; things that aren't fair, but happen anyway. It's tempting to blame someone but it's simplistic, and in the end, it doesn't make it any easier to accept.

On bad days, like the Friday afternoon when Alex finds divorce papers waiting in his mail-slot, he blames Pam. Not for the catalyst event -- the miscarriage that started it -- but for the way she pulled away from him. For the way she stopped talking, stopped smiling; for the way she flinched if he brushed past her in the kitchen. He blames her for making their home silent and empty, for making him feel lonely. He blames her for the times she'd get out of bed in the middle of the night -- sometimes because he'd reached for her, sometimes while he was sleeping -- and he'd wake up alone, find her curled in what they once called the nursery (now the spare room) and he'd walk past, leave for work without saying a thing.

As much as it's Pam's fault, it's his too. He never knew the right words, never knew what to say to reach her and fix it, and he's pretty sure he was supposed to. There was something, some magic phrase, some perfect argument that would have made Pam look at him again as if... as if she still cared. But whatever it was, Alex didn't know it and instead of fixing this, instead of making it better, he'd been angry. Simmering and sullen, until he'd yelled and she yelled back. It went from silence to shouting, and the things she said…

That he didn't understand. That his work was the only thing he cared about, his only priority. That he was an absent, distant husband and he would've been an absent, disinterested father.

And how was she supposed to talk to him when she'd lost someone she loved, and he'd only had a possible inconvenience take care of itself.

After that last comment, Alex had stormed out, stayed in a motel for two nights. When he came home, his bags were packed in the hallway with a note saying Pam had gone to stay with her mom and wanted him gone before she got back.

He tells this all to Michael, because he's twenty-eight and about to be divorced and this wasn't how his life was supposed to go. And because he had a glass of Jack Daniels for courage before he signed the divorce papers, and another one after, and by the time he was on his third, there didn't seem to be any point in stopping. So by the time Michael turns up, Alex is sloppy-drunk and maudlin, needing a hand against the wall to stay upright long enough to open the door.

He's drunk enough that the floor won't stay steady and his stomach's queasy, but the bottle of Jack isn't empty yet. He says something about the money being on the counter. He had enough foresight for that. He means that Michael can leave. Instead, Michael picks up the phone and orders pizza. Then he fills a glass with water and leads Alex back to the couch.

He presses the glass into Alex's hand, but Alex shakes his head. Reaches for the Jack. But Michael's fast and sober, so he beats Alex to the bottle and takes it to the kitchen.

The kitchen is too far away and Alex can't be bothered getting to his feet again, so he sighs and closes his eyes. He drops his head against the back of the couch while Michael walks back and sits down beside him. When he lolls sideways, gravity too impossible to fight, Michael guides him down. Alex ends up sprawled across Michael's lap, Michael's fingers dragging slowly though his hair as he talks about his marriage and his soon-to-be ex-wife, what he thought his life would be now and what it disappointingly is.

In the morning, the light is too bright and Alex feels like he's gone past dead and woken up on the other side. The only consolation is the glass of water sitting beside his bed. There are two heavenly white pills lying beside the glass, and Alex swallows them, trying to keep his eyes closed as much as possible.

He drifts back to an uneasy sleep and doesn't wake until early afternoon. That's when he sees the entire bottle of painkillers further back on his bedside table and the note left under it. The handwriting is messy, all capitals, and seems rushed, but says clearly: _Thought you'd need these. Sleep it off._

***

Alex apologizes to Michael on Monday night. Explains that he hadn't meant to get absolutely, ridiculously drunk and Michael shrugs. Doesn't say anything about it.

So Alex takes him out. Suggests the movies and dinner, and Michael frowns. "I'm starting to think you don't understand this arrangement," he says, and there's a light hint of humor in his tone. "You don't have to date me, don't have to buy me presents. I'm already a sure thing."

It makes Alex laugh and take him out anyway. It also makes Alex stop in his tracks, nearly a week later, in the middle of wandering around Marshall Fields' (shopping for new shoes is his rationale, but he knows why he picked this particular store) when he sees a light grey shirt that reminds him of Michael's eyes. There's a sheen to it, a hint of blue, and on impulse Alex buys it.

The next time they go out, Alex suggests that Michael changes first and pulls the grey shirt out of the closet. Michael takes one look at the tag -- at the size that certainly wouldn't fit across Alex's shoulders -- and gives a small satisfied smile. Then he says, "Maybe I should get some flashcards to explain this arrangement to you."

Stepping up behind Michael, Alex tugs at the hem of Michael's t-shirt, gathers the soft, body-warm cotton his hands and rests the backs of his fingers against the flat plane of Michael's stomach. He rubs his cheek against the soft skin of Michael's neck and says, "Maybe I like taking you out. Maybe I like giving you gifts."

"Maybe you like the idea of me walking around in something you bought," Michael replies, watching Alex over his shoulder.

Alex chuckles. He can't deny the truth of that statement.

***

It settles into a surprisingly easy routine. Those three nights a week become Alex's favorites. It doesn't matter if he cooks while Michael watches and helps, or if they go out or order in; it doesn't matter if he drags Michael to the bedroom within ten minutes of seeing him or if they sit on the couch, watching bad cop shows and necking in the commercial breaks; it doesn't even matter if Alex is stuck in the middle of a big case, sitting at the table, reading through reports while Michael pulls open a textbook and starts studying. It doesn't actually matter what they do -- they're still the highlight of Alex's week.

He finds himself looking forward to those days, more than he'd ever admit.

Then one Tuesday he gets a call. "Mahone," he answers out of habit and it's Michael's voice on the other end of the line, saying, "Alex," and then, "Look, um..."

"Michael?" Even Alex hears the surprise in his own voice, but it's not an unwelcome call. It's just that Michael's never called him. In fact, he never thought of giving Michael his number.

"Something fell through," Michael says. There's a slight pause, then, "I thought if you weren't busy--"

"Come over," Alex says, and can't help smiling.

***

When Michael gets there, there's something... off. It's in the curl of Michael's shoulders, in the clothes that he's wearing: nothing thin and tight, all baggy jeans and a dark hoodie, clothes that cover and hide him. It's even in the way Michael's fingers grip too tightly on the door as he shuts it behind him.

Alex almost asks, but Michael steps right into his personal space, leans up a fraction of an inch and kisses him. Even that's not right: Michael's never the one to step forward, the one to kiss first; he's always the one to stand open, to invite and wait for Alex to make the first move. But Michael kisses with tongue and teeth and fingers tight on Alex's biceps, and it's so easy to get distracted by that. To reach for Michael, get hands on slim hips and drag him closer.

Then Michael pulls back.

"Want to fuck me?"

The words are whispered right against Alex's lips but for a moment, Alex thinks he's misheard. He's jerked Michael slowly and sucked him off fast; he's had Michael on his knees in the kitchen or stretched out beside him on the bed, enjoyed those long fingers on his skin or those lips around his cock, but not this. Michael's never suggested it and Alex hasn't asked -- didn't want to push, didn't want to ask for something Michael would refuse -- but suddenly it's his for the taking.

He hadn't asked, but he's thought about it. Thought about pinning Michael against the wall or bending him over the bed. Thought about the noises Michael would make as Alex worked him loose. He's thought about Michael flushed and panting, gasping for more and harder, and leaving the kind of hickeys that couldn't be hidden by a shirt collar. It's such a simple, straightforward offer and Alex isn't sure what he wants more: curled up on their sides, drawing it out slowly, rocking into Michael until he begs. Or Michael on his hands and knees, fingers tight around the headboard, arms straining to hold steady as Alex fucks him hard and deep.

And now Michael's watching him, waiting. Alex swallows and nods, and lets Michael lead him to the bedroom.

Michael skins out of his clothes quickly, and Alex's fingers feel clumsy on his buttons but he gets his shirt open enough to yank it over his head. He has to turn away from Michael to get some composure, to get his fingers working enough to shuck his pants and everything else. When he looks over, Michael's stretched on his side across the bed, playing with a foil packet between his fingers.

"Rules," Michael says, like an explanation.

Alex nods as he crawls over the sheet, as he kicks the covers to the end of the bed. "I remember."

Michael presses one hand against his shoulder, and Alex rolls obediently onto his back. Staying still, letting Michael's fingers roll the condom over his cock is the worst -- the best -- tease in the world. The type of tease that has him digging his fingernails into his palm and dragging in deep breaths. When Michael's done, he swings one leg over Alex, thighs pressing against Alex's sides.

Alex unclenches his fists and reaches out. Tangles a hand around the back of Michael's neck and tugs him down to kiss. Slides the other hand down Michael's spine, to the curve of his ass, and Michael says, "You don't have to--" but Alex doesn't understand until he pushes his hand lower and finds Michael's skin already slick. The idea of Michael being so prepared, being so ready -- wanting this so much -- makes Alex's chest tight.

He grips tight on Michael's hips, and Michael huffs a surprised breath against the corner of Alex's mouth.

Kneeling over him, Michael reaches down for Alex's cock, slides a fist loosely around him a few times and then tightens his grip, holding steady as he lowers himself, pushing down until Alex is sliding inside. Alex scrunches his eyes shut -- has to, just to keep the pretence of self-control -- and smoothes his hands over Michael's kneecaps. His world narrows to the shifting movement of muscles under his hands and the tight heat around his cock.

Then Michael moves. Lifts himself up. Slides back down.

Alex swears.

It makes Michael move a little faster, press his hands flat against Alex's chest.

Michael's thighs are hot against Alex's skin. Digging his fingers in, Alex feels the muscles clench and contract as Michael lifts up and rocks back down, feels the slide of sweat. Behind closed eyelids, he pictures Michael shifting and arching, the sheen on his skin, tendons on his arm standing out as he moves. Alex groans at the thought and forces his eyes open.

Michael's moving, working himself up and down on Alex's cock, and his body looks incredible. All lean lines and stretched muscles, fingers hooked over Alex's shoulders to ground him as he shifts. But it's not what Alex expected. Michael's watching him, eyes cool and calculating, mouth in a soft line. Alex knows the way Michael looks when he's turned on and overwhelmed; knows the way Michael bites at his lower lip, ducks his head as if trying to hide; the way Michael's eyebrows draw together and his eyes squeeze shut.

And he knows the way Michael watches when he's judging by reactions, when he's selling a service.

Alex glances down to where Michael's cock lies soft and vulnerable between his legs. It only confirms what he already realized: Michael's not enjoying this.

Every time Alex imagined this, slow and gentle or hard and fast, Michael never suffered through it, never did it out of obligation or necessity. Alex isn't a brute, isn't a bully, but he is if he lets this happen.

"Michael?" Alex asks, and has to clear his throat to clear the gruffness in his tone.

Michael leans closer, but doesn't stop moving until Alex grasps his hips and holds him still. Michael smiles, slides his hands over Alex's fingers and asks, "What do you want, Alex?"

There's a hint of something too serious in the question. Something that makes Alex pause and change what he was going to say. "I'd rather be on top," he says but it sounds too selfish, so he adds, "if you don't mind?"

Michael's eyes dart to the side, a telltale sign that he has to think about it, that he does mind, but it's only for a second. Then he says, "Sure," and starts to lift and slide off Alex's cock.

Alex tugs on Michael's hips and Michael freezes. "Better idea," Alex says, moving one hand to the back of Michael's shoulder and pulling him close enough to kiss. Chest to chest, sucking on the bow of Michael's lower lip, Alex wraps both arms around Michael's back. It's a smooth turn to roll them over, to get Michael flat on his back and Alex leaning over him.

Shifting his weight to his elbows, Alex feels himself slide deeper inside Michael without meaning to, and Michael lets out a tiny gasp, flinching for a split-second. Alex pretends to ignore it but he stays still. Breathes deep and tries to remember that pounding into Michael really isn't what he wants to do here. (It's exactly what he wants, what part of him wants, but not right now. Not like this.)

Michael lifts his head up, presses his open, wet mouth to Alex's cheek. "You know, if you're going to be on top, you need to be the one moving here."

Alex nods and digs his fingers into the sheet underneath them. He is not going to lose control. He is not going to fuck Michael through the mattress just because Michael is shifting impatiently beneath him, against him, around him. He's not, but he needs a moment, needs a distraction from Michael's sharp teeth dragging along Alex's shoulder, from the rub of Michael's bended knee against his thigh. "First time you've done this?"

Michael snorts, a warm gust of air against Alex's skin. "No."

Alex doesn't think Michael's lying, but at the same time, he's sure there's something else going on. Michael's acting differently and he's trying to hide it, but there's more to this. Alex is sure. "First time you've been paid for this?"

"You haven't paid me yet," Michael replies, and Alex guesses that's the answer. Maybe it's something Michael never expected to sell. It would make sense. Michael's full of internal lines: barriers around what Alex isn't allowed to know, clear limits on what Michael requires Alex to do (pay) and what he'll let Alex do (almost anything). Michael may have suggested this, might have planned it, but he'd still be uncomfortable changing the divisions in his life. Maybe that's all Alex is noticing... but there's something else, too. Something that makes Alex want to define and dissect into motivation and reaction, something that makes Alex want to study and question and understand.

"Seriously, Alex," Michael says, and Alex blinks back to awareness of a solid body and warm skin beneath him, "you're supposed to move."

"Maybe I'd prefer this," Alex says, pushing up to his knees and pulling Michael's hips onto his lap. Michael's gasp this time is softer, hidden faster, and Alex brushes a thumb across Michael's mouth.

Michael licks at his lips -- warm, wicked tongue sliding across Alex's thumb -- and twists his hips. Alex leans forward enough to land a kiss on Michael's chin, licks his way up to Michael's mouth and kisses the way Michael likes, deep and slow, until Michael's eyes are half-shut and his arms are wrapped around Alex.

Smoothing a hand beneath Michael's back, palming his spine, Alex pushes his other hand into the mattress, digs his fingers into the cool cotton sheet. He's caught between being on his knees and being on all fours, but he keeps a hand low on Michael's back, thumb curling around one narrow hip and then pushes in. This time, the gasp is almost breathless, and Alex tries to focus on anything other than the hot, slick skin around his cock. Dropping his head to Michael's shoulder, Alex concentrates on the brush of hair against his jaw, the salty taste of Michael's skin under his tongue, and keeps his movements slow and careful. Makes himself wait until Michael groans, grips hard on Alex's shoulders and starts to move with him.

It's a little awkward. No way for Alex to thrust and pound into Michael the way he really wants to, but he wants this too. Wants to feel the muscles under his hand tense and shift as Michael rocks against him, wants to feel the warm press of Michael's cock getting hard against Alex's stomach. Wants to hear Michael's breathing get sharp and unsteady, until Michael buries his head against Alex's skin and bites down hard to muffle the noises he's starting to make.

Alex tries to keep his self-control by focusing on the small things. The sweat pooling between his shoulder blades, rolling down his spine. The muffled thump of the bed hitting the wall, moving with them; the inner-spring mattress beneath his knees barely protesting. As a last resort, Alex glances over at the clear bedside table, thinks about the framed picture of Pam sitting face-down in the back of the drawer. It would work better if he couldn't feel Michael's mouth on his shoulder, leaving pomegranate teeth-marks that will stain his skin for days.

Michael lifts his head, says, "Alex, come on," and groans like he's dying. Like these shallow thrusts are killing him as much as they're killing Alex.

Alex nods and says something, pressing Michael flat into the mattress. He hooks an elbow under Michael's knee, wants to keep the angle that has Michael biting off curses, hissing them out as consonants. He digs his fingers into Michael's hips, pulls almost all the way out and then slams back in, and Michael arches, pushing his head into the pillow, saying, "Yeah, yeah," as Alex pulls back and does it again. And then again.

Michael claws his fingers into Alex's thighs, reaching down blindly -- his eyes closed, his lower lip almost white between his teeth. When Alex gets a hand on Michael's cock, drags his palm over the head as he starts jerking him off, Michael digs his fingernails in hard, a sharp pain that flares up Alex's nerves. Crescents dug into his skin, marks that will be left the next morning, tender and undeniable. That's the thought that sends him over the edge, heart rate pounding as he thrusts and pushes through it. It's only through sheer willpower that he keeps his hand moving until Michael grunts through gritted teeth and comes between them.

Alex is left wheezing for air, sweaty and sticky, still buried so deep inside Michael he can feel his pulse.

Pushing the hair off his forehead with an unsteady hand, Alex watches Michael: the flush covering his chest and neck. The mess on his stomach. The hands still clawed into Alex's legs.

Michael drags in a shaky breath and lets it out slow. After the second, he opens his eyes and says, "I need a shower."

Alex slips out of him as easy as he can and rolls onto his side. He means to watch Michael get up, but his eyes slide shut without his permission. He opens them once and there's the sound of water running, the bathroom door closed. The second time he opens them, Michael's wearing jeans and nothing else, sorting through the pile of clothes past the foot of the bed.

"I should go," Michael says.

Alex has to squint to read his watch. "It's only midnight."

"Yeah, but--" Michael stops halfway through his sentence, corrects himself. It's so unlike him that it catches Alex's attention, surprises him awake. "I should probably still go."

"Come here," Alex says, and holds out a hand, shifting over on the bed to give Michael space to sit down. Michael looks at him for a moment, and then walks over. Sits down. Keeps his hands on his lap, fingers interlaced between denim-covered thighs. "You okay?" Alex asks.

"Nothing to worry about."

It's enough of a non-answer that Alex tugs Michael down. He wraps an arm around Michael's chest and kisses the back of his neck, tastes soap and clean water. He doesn't say anything because he doesn't know what to say; he's not that guy. But he knows how to be there, how to hold on, and he knows that some things hit you hard, especially when you're not expecting it. First time he'd fucked a guy, first time he'd been fucked, it hadn't been a big deal. But the first time he'd gotten down on his knees, had another man's dick in his mouth, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about it for days, kept hearing _cocksucker_ in the back of his head. After a week, he figured he knew how to disassemble a service rifle in ninety seconds, how to kill a man with his bare hands, and who he went down on wasn't going to change any of that.

"I thought coming here would be the best option." Michael pauses. Alex is close enough to hear him swallow. "I might have been wrong."

"Why?"

"I came to ask you a favor."

Alex doesn't say: no, you came over prepared to get fucked, prepared not to like it. He thinks it though. "Soften me up, then ask?"

Michael nods. Doesn't apologize for the blatant manipulation, but Alex hadn't expected him to. "It's a favor. Not blackmail, not a threat. And--" The tiniest of pauses. "--if I could think of another way to fix this, I wouldn't be involving you."

"What's the favor?"

Alex is sure Michael's prepared this, planned out every word he'll say, but he stalls, takes a breath before he starts. "There's a guy. Lincoln Burrows. He got arrested this morning for trafficking stolen goods. I know you're not a cop but I thought you might know someone, might be able to help."

"And in this abuse of authority, am I supposed to be getting him off or getting him charged?" The question comes out angrier than he'd like, but it's only because as he says it, Alex is thinking that Michael's normally busy Tuesday nights and the guy got arrested this morning. "He's why you're busy on Tuesdays?"

"Yeah," Michael says, and adds, "He says he's innocent. He shouldn't go to jail for something he didn't do."

"You really thought I'd agree?" Alex asks before he can stop himself. He's always been a little jealous, a little possessive; once upon a time, Pam liked that about him. "Fuck you once and I'd do anything?"

He feels Michael tense against him, but Michael sounds calm. "I know it's a lot to ask, but..."

"But, what?"

"Maybe I can compensate you for it. I could give you everything you've paid me."

It only takes a moment for Alex to place that figure in the thousands. "Where would you get money like that?"

"My savings account," Michael replies. When Alex snorts, Michael adds, "That's what this was for, you know, this year. Young, white males aren't a minority in anything, especially engineering. Even with my grades, there's no chance I'll get a full scholarship. But if I get into a school in Chicago, live at home, I could use this money to pay for the first year or two. So, yeah, I've got it all. Every dollar."

"Hustling on street corners to pay for college," Alex mutters under his breath. As strange as it sounds, he doesn't have any doubts that Michael would have considered it a logical solution. "You get how dangerous that is?"

"I'll keep coming around," Michael says, ignoring the question. "Weekdays, weekends, whenever you want. For as long as you want me."

Alex closes his eyes, presses his forehead to Michael's clean skin. It's a tempting offer -- say yes now and keep Michael around for years -- but it's taking advantage and Alex knows it. "This guy means that much to you?"

"I need--" Michael stops himself again, but this time, Alex can hear the desperation. "I need him to stay out of jail."

"I can't promise anything." Alex kisses Michael's shoulder, tells himself he was an idiot not to see this coming. He hadn't wanted to think about what Michael did on those other nights, so he hadn't even considered there was someone else Michael cared about. "But I'll see what I can do."

***

Alex doesn't like Burrows. He goes into the interview with a few expectations – that Burrows will be smart, charming and innocent of the crime, but Alex still won't like him – but Alex is only right about the last one.

Burrows isn't smart. Street-smart and cunning, maybe, but he strikes Alex as little more than a thug; the kind of guy that thinks an argument is won by who hits harder and that whoever's strongest should take what they want.

Burrows isn't charming. He's obnoxious. He sneers. Gives the kind of attitude that has Alex itching to come down heavy on the smug son of a bitch, but he holds himself back. Punks like this -- all muscle, all bravado -- don't usually get to him. But Alex doesn't usually spend half his time staring at big, meaty fists and imagining those fingers on Michael's skin.

But when his last expectation is proved wrong, when Alex puts together what Burrows is and isn't saying and knows -- without a doubt -- that Burrows is guilty, Alex gets up and walks out.

***

Alex doesn't mince words, doesn't soften it for Michael. He just closes his front door behind Michael and says, "Burrows lied to you. He did it."

Michael holds Alex's gaze but his expression doesn't change. "You're sure?"

"I am." Alex shrugs. He's not going to waste time trying to convince Michael if Michael doesn't want to believe it. "But even if I'm wrong, he's on a suspended sentence for Assault and Battery. And he's picking up a wage from a chop-shop run by two previously convicted felons."

Michael rests a hand on the laminate bench, saying, "He gets work where he can," but he doesn't seem surprised by the suspended sentence. "He's not a bad guy."

"Doesn't matter. He's going to jail for at least six months. Maybe nine. Double that if the judge doesn't like him or if they can prove this charge."

Michael nods. Doesn't say anything. Alex doesn't know if he should reach for him or not, so he pulls steak out of the fridge and starts dinner. Pounding it flat is therapeutic.

For once, Michael doesn't help. Doesn't hover beside Alex, absorbing it all. When Alex looks over his shoulder, Michael's sitting at the table, staring out the window. The only thing he'll see from that angle is the buildings around them, edges of concrete and brick.

Before he thinks better of it, Alex says, "He'll be okay, you know. A guy built like that isn't going to have trouble in prison."

"He spent six months in juvie," Michael replies distractedly, still looking out. "I'm sure this will be the same."

"He'll be fine," Alex repeats, wishing he could say something more reassuring.

***

If Michael's extra quiet the next few times he visits, Alex doesn't mention it. He tries to be civilized about it, tries not to pry. Pretends he doesn't notice the hunch of Michael's shoulders, the shadows and faint creases under his eyes.

He suggests bed a little earlier and if Michael's the one who reaches first, if Michael's the one who clings a little tighter, well, Alex doesn't mention that either.

He tries to give Michael the space to be heart-broken, if that's what this is. It's hard to tell because Michael keeps it all locked away behind intense stares and hands hanging deceptively loose at his sides. When Alex says, "Look, maybe you can get Burrows to testify against--" Michael cuts him off.

Says, "I don't want to talk about it."

"I know." Alex would have to be deaf and blind not have noticed that. "But the fact remains. It might minimize his sentence. Make this easier." On who, he doesn't say.

They're lying in bed, cocooned in covers and hidden by the dark. He can't see Michael's face and Michael's tone is too bland for Alex to read it. "Linc wouldn't do it."

"He might hate the idea, but it's practical. This is his second charge within six months--"

"He wouldn't do that." After a moment, Michael adds, "I already asked."

***

Alex also notices that he's a little more handsy, more prone to touching Michael whenever he's close. It's not sexual, not directly. It's in the kitchen: a hand on the back of Michael's shoulder, a palm against the small of his back, fingers curled around his wrist as he stirs the gravy in the pan. It's small things like brushing Michael's arm as he walks past or resting a hand on Michael's leg when they watch TV.

Alex isn't sure if it's possessive or protective. He doesn't know if he wants to claim Michael as his and his alone, or if he just wants Michael to remember that there's still someone here, still someone on Michael's side.

There's something reassuring about having Michael warm and solid under his hand. Still, Alex is surprisingly thankful that Michael doesn't mention it.

***

Michael's mood lifts slowly, like a long icy winter gradually thawing to spring. There's nothing fast, nothing sudden about it, and it's vaguely fascinating to observe. Michael goes from sitting on the couch, staring at the wall, lost in his own thoughts as Alex watches TV, to frowning in concentration and using the commercial breaks to try to identify the on-screen culprit. Michael starts smiling again -- quick, fleeting smiles, easy to miss if Alex weren't watching for them -- and helps cook dinner and brings textbooks over. The only thing that hasn't gone back to normal is Alex's urge to touch.

He likes having a hand on Michael, resting his fingers on the soft denim of Michael's jeans or pressing his palm into the thin cotton of Michael's t-shirt. He likes leaning behind Michael when he's studying, sliding hands over Michael's shoulders and sucking a few slow kisses to the side of Michael's neck. If it were lust, if it were just a way of hurrying Michael into bed, Alex would understand it.

But it's slipping into a habit. Becoming something Alex does without really meaning to.

They're walking down the street when some douchbag in a suit gives them a dirty look. Alex glares right back until the guy backs down, glancing away, and that's when Alex understands. That's when he notices his arm low around Michael's back, fingers curved around Michael's hips. As far as body language goes, it's pretty damn obvious.

Stupid as it is, Alex finds himself hoping Michael hasn't noticed. He's not sure why, but it's got something to do with liking the ability to claim Michael -- even if he knows he shouldn't -- and not wanting Michael to tell him to stop.

When he looks across at Michael, Michael gives him a sly, sideways grin. "I think we're offending people."

Alex replies without thinking. "Don't care."

Michael allows himself to drift a fraction closer. Just enough for Alex to stretch a little and hook his thumb through the side belt loop of Michael's jeans. Smiling, Alex looks straight ahead but, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Michael duck his head.

Then Michael asks, "Any chance you could meet me this Thursday?"

***

Thursday passes in a distracted blur. Unfortunately, it's the kind of distraction that involves guns and hostages. By the time he gets the paperwork out of the way (more of an annoyance than usual), he's running almost an hour late but when he gets to Union Station, Michael's still waiting. He's leaning against one of the ridged stone columns, one hand in his pocket, scanning the crowds as they pass. He doesn't smile when he spots Alex, but the tension beneath his eyes eases.

"I was starting to think you wouldn't show," Michael says when Alex gets close enough to hear him.

"Busy day." It's a massive understatement and judging by the way Michael lifts one skeptical eyebrow, it's not particularly believable. "Not worth talking about," Alex adds, and that's almost true.

Michael shrugs and pushes away from the building. As he does so, a kid -- maybe five or six, dark hair in an embarrassing bowl-cut, chewing on gum -- dashes around the corner and cries, "Time!"

Alex blinks. Michael doesn't seem surprised, just looks at his watch and says, "Three minutes, forty-two. I still say you can do it faster."

"You said under four minutes, Uncle Mike," the boy whines, and there's something a little familiar about the tone of voice, the cocky angle of his crossed arms. Something that doesn't remind Alex of Michael at all.

"Fine," Michael says, pulling a packet of gum from his pocket, "take it." The boy snatches it out of Michael's hand and Michael rolls his eyes and adds, "LJ, this is Alex. Alex, this is Lincoln Junior."

"Nice to meet you," Alex says, and the boy shrugs. To Michael, Alex asks, "Your nephew?" and Michael nods.

It doesn't take a genius to understand what Michael's telling him.

***

Alex waits until after they've eaten at McDonald's, until after they've returned LJ to a modest house out in the Eastern suburbs. Michael follows him home without comment so Alex waits until his door is locked and they're sitting on the couch. Then he asks, "When was the last time you slept with someone else?"

Michael smirks. "You don't remember last night?"

"With someone other than me."

Michael settles back on the couch, lets his head loll back and his eyes almost close. Alex isn't fooled. Between dark lashes, there's the glitter of steely blue eyes watching him. "Are you sure that's what you want to ask?"

"I could ask if Burrows is your brother," Alex says, "but I'm pretty sure he is."

Michael nods once.

"I could ask if your parents are anywhere around but I'm pretty sure they're not."

Michael shrugs but he doesn't deny the fact.

"I could ask why you let me believe Burrows was another client but I'm guessing you thought it was safer."

"You're competitive," Michael says slowly. A less observant man -- someone who isn't used to looking for tells, for guilt and fear and worry -- might not notice Michael's palms pushing flat into his legs, his knuckles bent up tight as he talks softly and evenly. "I thought you'd try harder. If it were a challenge, if it were proving you were the better man. I thought you'd need a reason to try."

Alex is tired but there's a wariness creeping through his bones; he's on unstable ground and he knows it. Whatever Michael's showing him, whatever he's being allowed to know, there'll be a reason for it. Alex isn't sure he wants to know why, not just yet. "You didn't answer my question."

"It doesn't mean anything," Michael says, which makes Alex suspect it means more than Michael wants to admit. "The night before you called me and said you were back in Chicago. That was the last time. But sleeping wasn't really involved."

It's funny that Alex doesn't feel triumphant. He doesn't even feel relieved. There's just a low, curling worry waiting for what's next. "Why are you telling me this now?"

"I'm in a difficult situation. I don't expect you to fix it, but--" There's a breath and Michael lets his eyes close completely. "I want to know where I stand. If it's worth staying."

"As opposed to?"

"Leaving Illinois. I've been thinking about it."

Alex wraps his fingers around Michael's wrist. Then he says, "Tell me what's going on," and Michael does.

It's all short sentences, unemotional and easy to follow. It sounds rehearsed, like Michael's trying to keep this as uncomplicated as possible. Like he doesn't expect Alex to understand, not really. But Alex does.

Alex understands the twist in Michael's shoulders, the slightly haunted look he gets when he says, "When Linc was in Juvie, I was in foster care." Alex has seen enough victims, enough human casualties, to understand it all too well.

When Michael says, "I'm not a fan of living in a foster home again," he means he's terrified. When he says, "Linc has an ex in New York. I might be able to stay with her," what he really means is that he'd rather be anywhere else -- no matter the impact on his academic record, no matter what he has to do to make ends meet.

Then Michael says, "But high school's here. And LJ. And you." Michael says it like Alex is an afterthought, like he barely matters in this decision but Alex understands what he means.

"What do you need to know?" Alex asks, brushing his thumb over the tendons of Michael's wrist. Somewhere outside, Alex can hear traffic, the muffled sounds of a city slowing down. Inside his apartment, he listens to the wheezing of next door's ancient air conditioner and Michael's slow breath in.

"Would it make a difference to you? If I was gone? Or would it just be the inconvenience of picking up someone new?"

"Michael," Alex says, and then stops. Because he's not this guy. Because he doesn't have the right words. He never has.

"It's okay, Alex," Michael says softly and for a moment, Alex thinks he gets it, thinks Michael understands what he doesn't know how to say. Then Michael stands up and holds out a hand, tugs until Alex is on his feet. "It's okay if that's all this is. That's the beauty of paying, really. It keeps things simple."

"That's not--" Alex says, and then, "I don't mean--" and Michael smiles and says, "It's okay," like it really is, like this is all he expected.

"Stay the night," Alex says. It's a cowardly retreat. He should tell Michael to stay, to stay forever, but instead he says, "Not like there's anyone waiting for you at home."

Michael tilts his head down, breaks eye-contact, and says, "Yeah, okay." Alex kisses him before he can say anything else that sounds like defeat.

***

Alex wakes up with his nose pressed against the curve of Michael's ear and blue-tinged light hovering around the blinds. It's morning, but still early so Alex stays curled behind Michael. He keeps his arm where it is -- loosely over Michael's side, fingers hanging and brushing the soft stretch below Michael's ribcage.

Michael doesn't say anything. He doesn't make excuses for Alex or blame him; doesn't ignore the situation or say it doesn't matter. He just catches Alex's hand in his, rubbing his thumb against Alex's knuckles.

Alex could break the tenuous peace but there isn't anything to say. It's easier to kiss Michael's bony shoulder and press his hand flat against Michael's warm skin.

Slowly, he sketches Michael's body with his fingertips, with his lips, as if he's trying to memorize the angle of every jut of bone and the taste of every curve. He works his way to elbows and wrists, knees and ankles. In silence, he explores; it should feel new and full of promise, but it doesn't.

It feels like a desperate last chance, like a slow, quiet goodbye.

***

Getting ready in the morning is rushed and disorganized. It's amazing how quickly Alex has become used to living alone, not having to share a bathroom in the morning, not being distracted by someone standing half-dressed in his bedroom.

It isn't helped by the way Michael pauses, staring into Alex's closet at the grey shirt hanging at one end. The grey shirt Michael's worn out but never worn home.

For a moment, Alex thinks he'll ask for it. He's not sure if he'd let Michael have it; he's not sure he wants every trace of Michael erased so fast.

Then Michael turns away from the open door and pulls on his t-shirt. He grabs his bag and follows Alex to the lift, but he doesn't mention the shirt.

***

It's not a busy day. Alex hates slow days, hates being bored. Hates the low mechanical buzz of desktop computers when he has nothing to do but tidy up paperwork. Hates that he keeps thinking of Michael, tempted to call even if he's sure he'd be too cowardly to say anything important.

He hates feeling useless, like there's nothing he can do. And after the third time he's gotten up from his desk, paced to the window, and caught himself staring at the far outline of Union Station, Alex surrenders. He fishes Michael's number out of his wallet and dials.

It's disconnected.

Alex frowns, thinking. It's a hunch low in his gut, but he stands up and grabs his jacket, uses the flimsy excuse of going home sick to get out of the office.

Alex remembers things. Lines from films, odd moments of body language, names and addresses. They stick in his mind. He only saw Michael's license once but he doesn't have any trouble remembering the address of the building or finding it. The thing he can't remember is Michael's apartment number, so he asks for the building manager and knocks on his door instead.

A guy in his thirties answers the door and Alex can't help looking him up and down -- sweatpants and bright blue polo shirt; receding hair line; second generation immigrant by the accent, probably with Greek parents living somewhere in the city -- as he says, "I'm a friend of Michael's. Michael Schofield."

The guy says, "Huh, that was pretty fast," and reaches into his pocket. Alex tenses but the guy only pulls out a key and says, "Haven't had a chance to clean the place yet but you can have a look round if you're interested."

Alex forces a smile and makes himself say, "Thanks." He follows the guy up the stairs -- three flights, dirt in the corners, a child's scribble on the second landing -- and he's glad the guy doesn't try to make conversation. He just slides two keys into the locks, opens the door, tells Alex he can have the furniture if he wants and how much the monthly rent is.

The furniture, what's left of it, is sparse and mismatched. There's an orange couch with coffee stains on the arms and bare patches on the back. It clearly sags in the middle and Alex doesn't think it'd be comfortable to sit on (can't imagine settling into it, wrapping an arm around Michael as they watch TV). There's a light coffee table that looks like it came in a cardboard box from Ikea, and a heavy entertainment unit in the corner. On it sits a bulky, brown television set with dials on the side.

There are blinds hanging from the windows, and they look like newest item in the room.

The kitchen is small and clean, and Alex has the strong belief that if he opened the cupboards, he wouldn't find much more than bread, peanut butter and jelly. Maybe a box of macaroni and cheese. So he walks straight past it, ignores the bathroom and looks for Michael's bedroom.

There's a metal-framed double bed in the middle of the room, one bedside drawer on the left side. There's no linen on the bed, nothing in the drawers or closet. When Alex pulls back a blind, there's the view of a dark, narrow alley and he realizes that this is a perfect room for a shift-worker, for someone who works late and sleeps through the morning. It's Burrows' room, not Michael's.

Michael's room has a single bed against one wall with the matching bedside table from Burrows' room. Against the other wall, there's an old freestanding closet and an Ikea desk. Alex runs a hand along the wall above the desk, noticing the small oily marks and thinking this was where Michael had posters, or maybe study notes. This was where Michael sat and crammed for exams. This was the room -- a child's room, really -- where Michael slept and woke up and got dressed before going to school.

It feels empty, but Alex doesn't know if there's nothing left behind or if there was never much in the first place.

He looks in the closet, hoping Michael packed too quickly to take everything, and finds two photos tucked against the mirror on the inside of the door. The first is two boys standing by a lake. They look around five and eleven, and it's easy to see the resemblance to LJ. On the back is written _'Linc and Mike - 1983'_.

The second is a string of four photos from a photo booth. The first two shots are LJ -- same haircut, under a year ago by Alex's guess -- and in the third there's a blurry Michael moving behind him. In the fourth shot, Michael smiling at a point a little above the camera, one arm wrapped tight around LJ's shoulders, and LJ throwing his head back, frozen in the middle of laughter.

Alex puts the photos in his pocket, as carefully as he'd handle evidence. They're strange things to leave behind, and Alex wonders if Michael left them on purpose. If they were left to be found.

He checks the bedside drawers, in case there's anything there, and finds them empty. There's nothing stuck at the back of the drawers or taped underneath, but there are marks on the ash-brown carpet, marks that show it's been lifted and moved slightly out of place. Alex tilts the bedside drawers back and reaches under, and that's when he knows Michael decided to leave these things behind.

It looks like scraps of paper, rubbish, but it's not. There's a take-out menu from the first Indian restaurant Alex took him to and a logo-printed napkin from the Mexican place they went last month. There are movie ticket stubs: a few films he'd taken Michael to and the rest are kids' films, always on a Thursday afternoon. There's a cut-out from a newspaper -- three inches of an old case that mentions Alex by name -- and a tiny, lined notebook with recipes and ingredients scribbled down in narrow, cramped handwriting. Alex flicks through a few pages of simple instructions and recognizes the things that he's cooked, remembers holding Michael's hand around the whisk and showing him how fast it needed to be mixed.

At the very back page, there's a timetable for Greyhound buses to NYC. Alex stares at it for a moment. He thinks about sitting in Denver and seeing the ad for the Chicago position. The feeling is very similar: holding the piece of paper, thinking that it's impossible and ridiculous, that it's pointless to even try.

There's the same sharp kick of adrenaline when he knows -- even though it can't and won't work, even though it's absolute stupidity to think otherwise -- that's he going to do it anyway.

***

The bus terminal is fluorescent and stark, half empty in the early afternoon. Alex could go to the ticket counter and ask, but he'd rather walk around and see for himself. He looks at the travelers, the excited and the exhausted, and finds Michael slouched on a plastic chair with a gym bag on his lap.

"Hey," Alex says, and Michael looks up.

"There's a diner round the corner," Michael says, glancing at the clock on the wall and giving a small smile. "I've got a couple hours."

Moving the bag to his shoulder, Michael stands and tugs his red baseball cap down lower. Alex follows him through glass doors that slide shut behind them, and somehow isn't surprised that Michael's back to loose jeans and a baggy sweatshirt. It's an outfit designed to be overlooked, a style you'd find on any kid between fifteen and twenty-five.

Out in the street, Michael doesn't talk and Alex feels compelled to say, "You don't seem surprised to see me."

"You work for the FBI, you knew I was leaving the state and probably wouldn't pay to fly," Michael says blandly, and Alex has to duck his head to catch the corner of smile under the cap's shadow. "I figured it'd take about three phone calls for you to find me."

Michael turns right into an alley, and Alex shadows him around the corner. He figures it's a shortcut to the diner but when he glances up, it's a dead end of faded brick, back doors and hulking dumpsters. "Michael?"

Past the second dumpster, Michael takes a few steps towards the wall and stops, taking off his cap and dropping his bag to the grey concrete at their feet. "I didn't think you'd show," he says, and when Alex comes closer, Michael reaches out. Catching a hand on the sleeve of Alex's jacket, he tugs until Alex leans in. There's a light kiss then, landing off-center to the side of Alex's mouth, and Alex feels Michael smile.

"There's a hotel nearby," Michael says into Alex's skin, staying so close Alex can smell the scent of him. Standing so close Alex has no choice but to twist his head a little and catch Michael's lower lip between his teeth, to press forward when Michael gasps and pin him against the wall.

Michael kisses back, as tempting and welcoming as ever, and it's easy. Easy to cradle the back of Michael's head in his palm, easy to ignore the rough grate of brick against his knuckles. Alex gets a hand on Michael's hip, works three fingers under the waistband, and gets rewarded with a stuttered, "Oh…" when he brushes skin.

Michael grasps on his biceps, hands holding tight and then relaxing as they kiss. It makes Alex feel powerful, invincible. It's intoxicating: feeling Michael lean back into the wall and spread his thighs, arch his hips up against him. Michael's already half-hard and Alex knows all he'd have to do is move his hand a few inches to get Michael all the way. But they're also out on the street--

Alex looks around. Sees the dead end to his right and the dumpsters to his left, and realizes they're mostly hidden. Nobody's going to look too closely. They'd probably never notice.

That's what he tells himself as he slides a hand between Michael's legs. Even through the denim, through the cool metal buttons, he can feel the heat of Michael pressing against his palm. He rubs with the heel of his hand, reaching down to trace the head of Michael's cock with his fingertips. He asks, "Can I..." because he knows he shouldn't, not here, but Michael says, "Yes, yes, Alex," and buries his face against Alex's neck.

Alex tugs, yanks until the buttons give, shoves material out of the way until he gets a grasp on smooth, hot skin. This is easier than anything: fisting Michael's cock, working it slowly, waiting for Michael's fingers to dig into his arms before he speeds up. He judges his tempo by the soft gasps near his ear, and curls his other hand around Michael's neck, feeling the tendons tense and tighten as Michael gets closer.

Michael bites down as he comes. On bare skin, Michael's teeth would be sharp and painful, and Alex would have the bruise to remember it. But through his jacket and his shirt, Alex only feels a dull pressure against his shoulder.

Alex pulls a tissue out of his pocket and cleans Michael up enough to get him dressed again. Then he presses a kiss to Michael's temple and asks, "So, that hotel?"

"Down the block," Michael says, and he still sounds a little out of breath. He doesn't pull away. "Thought you might want to get a room for a few hours."

Alex doesn't want to let go, doesn't want to have move yet, so he stalls. "How much?"

"Don't know."

"Really?" It's the kind of thing Michael usually knows. Michael likes being prepared, likes knowing the details of the situation. Then Alex gets it. "You really didn't think I'd come?"

Michael snorts, and Alex can almost guess the bad joke that will follow. "Haven't come yet."

"That's a terrible line," Alex says, trying not to smile. "You really thought I'd--"

"Do your job? Be busy? Have better things to do? Yeah, I did."

Alex doesn't want to let go -- still doesn't want to move, not yet -- but Michael eases away. He picks his bag up, hoists it onto one shoulder, and then pulls the cap down low. Alex can't see his eyes, and he suspects that's intentional.

Alex could back up, let Michael walk past him. He could ignore the twinge in the back of his mind, that instinct that says he's missing something, that he's so close he just needs to think it through to understand everything. "So you're surprised I showed, but happy to see me," he says, leaning a hand on the wall beside Michael, trapping him there, "and then you suggest a hotel room. For a few hours."

"So?"

"You're still planning on getting on that bus?"

"It's not like I could stay," Michael says, hiding beneath the cap. "We tried hiding from Social Services when they wanted to send Linc to Juvie. It's harder than it sounds. I stay, I end up in foster care."

To Alex, it sounds like a rationalization. Logical, true, but not the real reason. "Then why ask if I'd miss you? If there was no way of staying, why ask?"

"Even if I stayed, it's not like I'd be able to see you. I'd have a curfew. Telling them there's this thirty year old guy who pays to fuck me," Michael says, voice getting hard and angry, "wouldn't change it."

"I'm twenty-eight." It's probably the least important part of Michael's statement, the last thing Alex should worry about arguing, but it's the first objection that comes to mind. Followed quickly by, "You could lie."

"I know." And just like that, Michael slouches, and the anger turns to defeat. "I could get Mrs. Murphy to take me in and lie about it. She's been a foster parent before, and if I said she could keep the money, that I had somewhere else to stay, she wouldn't ask any questions."

Alex reaches out, pulls the cap gently off Michael's head. He runs his fingers through Michael's short, dark hair, through the wave that always threatens to turn into curls, but Michael keeps his gaze slanted at the ground.

"But that means I'd have to earn enough to cover rent and bills, so I'd have to work other nights. And..." Michael pauses, and Alex waits, waits for him to look up and say, "You're kind of possessive. A couple weeks of finding bruises you didn't leave, and you wouldn't be interested anymore."

It makes sense, in a Michael-specific way. In a way that makes Alex want to hit something, want to beat some sense into the world with his fists. But it also makes him want to wrap his arms around Michael and say, "Stay. Don't go anywhere. Just stay."

"I already handed my keys in, Alex. I have no rental history and no legal job, and--"

"And you're making excuses. You're running away."

"Maybe I just want a reason to get out of here," Michael bites back. Alex likes it; he'd rather have Michael angry than hear he's already given up. "Maybe I don't want to stay."

"I don't think that's true. I don't think you would've left these behind if you were so thrilled to leave." Alex fishes the photos out of his pocket and Michael's eyes go wide. He grabs them out of Alex's hand and slides them into his bag as fast as he can.

"I didn't mean to leave those."

"Did you mean to leave the receipts? The movie stubs?"

Michael never has a lot of color in his face, but what he has disappears. "It was rubbish, you didn't even notice it gone. You don't get to be angry about me keeping it."

"Of course I'm going to be angry," Alex says sarcastically, but Michael looks guilty and worried. Michael looks like he's been caught doing something horrible and the world's going to fall apart.

"Look, I know it's not-- I'm not stupid enough to--" Michael swallows back those words. "I know how this works. You pay me, and that's it. The only thing I get, the only thing I should be taking is the money. But that was rubbish and--"

"You really think I don't care?" For some reason, that thought almost hurts.

"You like acting as if you care. That's what you pay me for. I know it doesn't--"

"It doesn't change the fact that I care," Alex says, talking over Michael. "Complicates it, but doesn't stop me from worrying about you and wanting you and everything else."

"Don't. Please." Michael's voice breaks painfully on that last word. "I'm not asking anything of you, Alex, so... don't."

"Not asking anything? You're asking me not to care, not to give a damn if you're in New York and all alone and--" Alex grunts in sheer frustration. He doesn't let go easily, he never has. If he'd had the smarts to recognize the choice when he had it, he wouldn't have let Pam go either. "I give it a week. A week before I'm on a plane to New York, tracking you down myself."

There's a spark of a smile, gone so fast Alex isn't sure what it means. "That wouldn't fix the situation."

"Then what would? What do you want?" Alex steps forward, pulls the cap off Michael's head and pushes right into his personal space. There's a lot he can tell by getting up and into someone's face: it startles people into reacting, stirs the basic fight-or-flight responses. Usually, it shakes them up enough that Alex finds out what he needs to know. "What is it that you want?"

"Impossible things," Michael snarls back at him, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet and meeting Alex's challenge. "I want Linc to be free. I want to feel safe. I want to graduate high school and get into a good college, and I want to see LJ every week and visit Linc whenever I can."

"And that's it?"

"And I want to see you! I want to go out to restaurants and let myself forget that I'm just a paid convenience. And I want--" Michael stops. Sunlight catches on his forehead, his nose, fading his eyes to an unnaturally bright silver. For a moment, he looks perfect, stunning and so full of passion, raw and aching. Then Michael steps away, takes that frustrated hunger and need, and locks it up behind cold eyes and a low voice that doesn't waver. "I want to believe there's a happy ending, a simple solution that gives me all of that, but I don't. Since Happily Ever Afters only happen to people who believe, to people who deserve it, what I want doesn't make a difference here."

Alex feels the tug of Michael pulling his baseball cap out of his hand and suddenly, this feels like arguing with Pam. Like he could scream at the top of his lungs and still not get through. Like no matter how hard he tries, how far he reaches, Michael will hide behind that snide cynicism and distance. Like no matter what he says, he'll never know the right words.

"There aren't any Happily Ever Afters. Life isn't like that," Alex says. "There are only happy moments, then someone loses a job or loses a kid. Someone strays, or they change and want something new, or they die. Disasters happen or tiny, personal catastrophes but it's always something. Someone feels hurt or betrayed, or it's just too hard, and then it falls apart. It always ends in tears and anger and pain. There are Happy Right Nows but that's the best you get."

It makes him sound bitter, but it's honest. It's true. And maybe it's enough because Michael says, "I wouldn't know what to do," and he sounds lost, but Alex thinks maybe -- just maybe -- they can figure this out.

"You cash in your ticket. You go to Mrs. Murphy. You get your stuff and anything else you want to keep, and you move into my place. You're there half the week anyway."

"I couldn't afford the rent," Michael says quickly. "Not without working most nights, and then I won't be able to keep my grades--"

It's amazing how easy it suddenly seems. How Michael's somehow so close that Alex only needs to lean forward an inch and interrupt him with a kiss. It's light and chaste, but Michael's lips are warm and soft, and as impossible as it may be, Alex thinks this might be all he needs. He's a moron for not realizing it sooner.

"I'm not asking for a flatmate. I don't need someone to split the rent and utilities. I'm saying," and Alex allows himself one breath for courage, before forcing the words out, "move in with me. Live with me. For real, Michael, not as a business arrangement, not as payment. Just... stay. Be mine."

"You'd cover the costs? Just like that?"

"I did when I was married," Alex replies and it surprises a fast smile out of Michael. "If you're really worried about it, first thing you design that gets built, you can pay me back out of that commission."

That gets the reaction Alex hoped for: a real smile that stays on Michael's face, even though he ducks his head and tries to hide it. "Might be waiting a while," Michael says, the smile still there, still Michael: unexpectedly sweet and surprisingly self-conscious. It's a genuine reaction, something Michael would probably hide if he could, and that makes it all the more precious. It makes Alex feel lucky that he's the one standing close enough to see it.

For that smile, Alex would attempt a million impossible things.


End file.
